The Pattern
by p-attinson
Summary: Sherlock ends up in the hospital on a heart monitor. John notices something awful peculiar; maybe it's glitching.


"How the bloody hell did you get yourself in this mess?"

Sherlock looks up at John from his cot in St. Barts after a stupendously tragic afternoon. He glances at the clock on the wall, the pattern shifting a little because of some sort of liquid that had been shot into his IV. Sherlock liked to think that medication this strong could perhaps replace his sudden craving for cocaine; something he hadn't done in a while.

John seats himself on the squeaking chair beside the bed and Sherlock automatically pulls upwards as a response. But the prodding of wires stop him and he collapses, defeated, against the uncomfortable and itchy sheets.

John crosses his legs and places a hand on his lap as if he's about to mentally examine Sherlock. "Now how did you get yourself here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock mumbles, "It was just a bit of an accident. No need to worry, John." He then reaches for the IV but John stops him with a burly hand, almost slamming Sherlock back against the cot. Sherlock makes a face and pretends to ignore John's presence.

"A bit of an accident?" John protests. "You got ran over by a cab."

Sherlock shrugs. "And? I jumped off this very hospital. Remember that?"

John flinches quietly, stung at Sherlock's words. He can see the pain he's masking away in his military form, stretching himself into a more proper posture and averting his gaze on the gauze against Sherlock's forehead.

"If you know how I ended up here, then why are you asking how I did?" Sherlock snaps.

"To be quite honest, I just wanted you to feel guilty." John says, looking at his hands and still cooling from Sherlock's earlier remark.

"About?" Sherlock responds. "Why should_ I_ feel guilty?"

John looks up now, though his face is still beet red. "For scaring the hell out of me, you asshole." He replies in disgust.

Sherlock waves a hand. "I'm fine. I'm fine, John. Just a few cuts and bruises. It's no need to tear down London." He says. "Did Lestrade catch the man?"

John looks confused and raises a rather thick, blonde eyebrow. "What man?" He remarks back.

Sherlock rolls his blue eyes in his usual fashion. "For God's sake, John. The man that I was tracking down before I got blasted with a moving vehicle."

John looks like he's lost in a train of thought. He just nods. "Yeah, yeah. He just phoned me." Then he's silent for a moment. "Don't do that to me again, alright Sherlock?"

Sherlock reads his face: a saddened expression and a turning of the mouth into a pout. His eyes are sunken in, suggesting he'd been crying not too long ago. He's twisting his hands as if he's nervous, though that's something Sherlock can't seem to figure out why.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock replies, stretching his neck to see John finger a tag against his coat pocket.

"Stop reading me you bastard," John snarls. Sherlock carefully situates back against the cot in submissive defeat. He's obviously upset and even though Sherlock has been less than careful about bothering people in the past, it's John he's never liked to see so, well, bothered.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asks. "You look a bit…_bland._"

John doesn't answer. Instead he stands up and steps towards the windows that overlook the balcony. And at all the people he sees below, Sherlock senses John suddenly feels entirely alone.

"Don't pull that stunt again, Sherlock." John says rather harshly.

"What stunt?"

"You know what I mean."

"Oh." Sherlock muses to himself. "Right."

The fall. He'd rather not think about it but John has been bringing it up ever since. Even though Sherlock has apologized_more_ than enough times for it, even cried in the presence of him upon their reunion, John has seemed to keep a harsh grudge against him. Sherlock supposed it was natural; human beings cope with holding something against another for their own feelings. But for God's sake, did he think he _wanted_ to do it?

Sherlock sighs. "John I…"

John raises a hand. "No, you're alright Sherlock just…" he takes a deep breath and walks towards him. "You could have not crashed my wedding, though."

"Yes, I admit that was a rather rude way of doing it." Sherlock replies.

"So, you're apologizing?" John asks.

Sherlock hesitates. "Yes, John, I'm apologizing. Are you happy?"

John smirks. "Yes, I suppose I am. After all, there's no harm in waiting to be married for another…week, was it you said?"  
Sherlock nods. "Mycroft recommended it. I had nothing to do with that."

John smirks. "Sure. Alright then." He walks towards Sherlock and then grabs his hand.

Sherlock sort of gasps under his breath and hesitates, cringing, before the heart monitor begins to erupt with a louder display of sounds. The rhythm shocks John and he pulls back only to find Sherlock blushing.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John asks, discombobulated.

Sherlock brushes it off, clearing his throat. The sound still patterns violently. "I'm sure it's just a defect, John. I'll see you tonight. I have a plan to escape this retched place. Give Mrs. Hudson my love, will you?" Then he hurriedly presses the red button which is latched onto the side of his bed and calls to his nurse for some more morphine.

John looks at him oddly but then waves to Sherlock goodbye.

He was thankful he wasn't latched to a monitor as well.


End file.
